I went after, landing better for I had the advantage of seeing what he had done. There were lights now, yellow flares in the darkness, as he raced down tiered rooftops.
The smell of cooking hit me and I knew we were stumbling across the roofs above the Street of Poor Cooking.
He skidded to a halt, teetered for a moment, then went over the edge with a sharp cry. I got there a second later and saw him crash into the street, hit a vendor's charcoal brazier in a spill of coals and hot oil, then sprawl in the middle of the road with a gasp and a grunt.
The vendor and his neighbours went wild, flailing the air with their arms and shrill words. They redoubled this when I landed in the middle of them, went over on my old ankle injury and crashed down in a pool of hot oil. Flames licked dangerously as the oil sludged into the dusty street, washing over spilled embers. Other screamers anxiously sprinted to scatter dust, or beat them with wet cloths.
They dragged up Brother John's killer, then recoiled as he flashed his knife at them. One, slower than the others, staggered back, put one hand to his side and then looked at the blood on it, before screaming and staggering away, showing this horror to everyone else around. They backed away from him, too, as if he had leprosy.
Hands grabbed me, hauled me up. A black-bearded face screamed into mine, spittle lashing me. I wanted to get round him to the killer, had to find out who he was, but Black Beard belted me one in the ribs, which made me wince. I hit him back and, suddenly, they were all on me, kicking and slapping and trying to tear my clothes, so I went down and curled into a tight ball.
There was one, a fat man in a ragged robe smelling of onions, who bent over me, his legs slightly apart, trying to grab my hair and beat my head in the dust while I slapped his hands away as if they were flies.
Then a booted foot shot up between his parted legs and the man screamed and flew through the air, arse over tip.
There was no way he was getting up again; he was blind with the agony of it and probably maimed for life.
Another man went sideways and bounced off a wall with a puff of dust. The others split apart and Finn stood there, Kvasir beside him; Botolf, who had kicked Onions to moaning ruin, stood next to him and others were coming up fast.
I saw the killer, knife still in his hand, start to get up, but there was something wrong with his leg. 'Grab him,' I gasped, pointing. 'He shot Brother John. . the alley.'
The killer was hirpling away, but Botolf's meaty hand took him by the collar and Short Eldgrim snicked the knife out of his hand as if a baby were holding it.
`Heya, you arse, stop struggling or I'll throttle you,' Botolf said amiably, holding the killer up with one hand so that his toes scrabbled an inch above the ground.
I uncurled and got up slowly, testing bits to see if they still worked. Botolf turned and brought the struggling, snarling killer with him, so that light finally fell on his face. When it did, when he knew it was all up with him, he stopped writhing and hung there, grim and jaw-clenched.
I knew the woman had been hired to lure me into the light of a neatly placed lantern and that Brother John had taken the arrow meant for me. The killer had silenced the woman when it had gone wrong, a ruthless move all done in the blink of an eye.
I had recognised that as deep thinking even as I had chased him across the roofs. I had thought Starkad had left one of his best men behind to make this mischief.
But hanging like a caught shark in Botolf's fist was Hookeye.
14
The church of the tomb of Aaron was a huddle of white buildings on a high plateau reached by a winding path from barren tablelands and sparse vegetation. I stood and brooded over the land, as if I were adrift in a hostile sea where something dark and intent shark-slid under the surface.
The sun was heavy as Thor's hammer, fields were dusty plantings and ragged fences leaned drunkenly, broken teeth in the raw red gums of the earth. The world was a pool of despair, collected among the scattered bricks of this place.
Finn and Kvasir appeared, flanking a robed figure, his hands stuck inside his sleeves, even in this heat.
He was a tonsured monk and what was left of his hair was the colour of a wolf pelt, but his eyes were keen and gentle and his name, he said, was Abbot Dudo.
`Well,' said Finn, 'that's Brother John delivered up then, Trader. I am sorry to see this day.'
`He was a stone in the shoe,' agreed Kvasir, nodding sorrowfully, 'but he was our stone in the shoe.'
I am sorrowed to hear of your loss,' Dudo said. 'Doubly so, since it was a brother in Christ and so cruelly slain.'
He spoke Norse with a strange lilting accent, for he was from Bayeux in Valland and had once gone with William Longsword's son when the boy had been sent to Bayeux from Rouen to learn the language of his ancestors, for even then the Norse of that place — they called it Normannsland these days — were growing less Norse and more Frank.
Still, in the thirty years since, Dudo had held on to the
`Slain by one of our own,' Finn growled. 'And in the back. And weaponless. Do you need extra candles lit to get him to his god's hall for having died such a straw death?'
Dudo smiled and shook his head. 'There are no straw deaths in the sight of the Lord,' he said and managed not to make it pious. 'After all, this is the church of Aaron, who was stripped of his priestly regalia by his own brother, Moses, on orders from God and died of shame and sorrow for it. Even so, he was gathered into the bosom of Christ.'
I didn't know whether the brother of Moses was really howed up here or not and it did not matter much.
We had come here for two reasons, the first being that Brother John would not rest easy in any Greek church of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem and, apart from mean little Nestorian and Jacobite places, there wasn't a decent Christ temple to howe him up in that city.
The second was Ibn al-Bakilani al-Dauda, governor of the city of Jersualem in the name of the Ikshid, Muhammad ibn Tugh, ruler of Egypt, Syria and Palestine — or so he claimed.
I knew enough of al-Dauda's position to know it was precarious, for he had not enough troops and his Ikshid was too busy fighting a losing war against the Fatimids of al-Muizz. Not to mention all the other little jarl-dreaming dynasties that were springing up like maggots on the sickening body of the Abbasid empire.
We had been ringed by guards in our hov in the Foreign Quarter, men with studded armour and spears and helmets with mail that covered all of their face but for their eyes. They were there as much to keep the rest of the street from tearing us to bits as arrest us.
They had swept up Hookeye and me, all the same, and kept us in separate stone rooms in one of the towers of the Jaffa Gate.
Towards dawn, as I shivered in the dank chill of that place, hearing the straw rustle with vermin, I was hauled out and, blinking in the light, stumbled up spiralling stairs to a similar room at the top of the tower, though this one had rugs on a polished wooden floor and rich wall hangings.
There was a man there, a figure in green and white clothes that flowed like water, with a jewel-hiked dagger thrust through the braided cord round his waist and a soft, folded cloth hat with a green stone in it which, if it really was an emerald, was the price of a farm in the Vik.
Abdul-Hassan ibn al-Bakilani al-Dauda, as he introduced himself in flawless Greek.
Orm Ruriksson,' I answered, but he waved one dismissing hand.
I know who you are. You are trouble.'
Not the best of openings, I was thinking, remembering Jarl Brand's remarks about ending up roasting with a stake up my arse. Sensibly, I kept my teeth touching and waited as he flipped open a small box on the table with his
